


Taking Everything You're Given

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: The routine was a comfort, delicate and easily broken. Luckily Goodnight knows how to look after Vasquez; and Vasquez knows how to take care of Goodnight.-“Chencha?” Vasquez called into the quiet apartment, already knowing what he would find. The TV was on, a low rumble of soft sound as the two detectives broke into a warehouse; Goodnight’s laptop rested on the coffee table, his mug resting next to it; and Vasquez moved around the corner, placing the bag down on the cluttered table with a sigh before his gaze could travel any further.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Vasquez
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	Taking Everything You're Given

**Author's Note:**

> 12 (roommate au) and 25 (Fairy Tale au) Goodnight Robicheaux x Vasquez  
> {Requested on tumblr}

The door to their apartment was almost identical to the others lining the walls at one time. But that time was long ago now.

The wood — originally a pale varnish, then painted green, then a neon pink before Goodnight declared it an eyesore and repainted it on the second night of their ownership — was a gentle grey, the bottom corner scuffed and blackened by the kicks of Vasquez’s boot, aimed to coax the door into unsticking. 

Carefully, Vasquez shifted the brown paper bag in his arms — the sharp edges of packages stabbed into his chest, too tender and aching, threatened to puncture through the thin paper, but putting it down would be admitting some kind of defeat — and kicked the door again, keys rattling in the lock.

Biting back a stream of curses — words bubbling with the dread swiftling mounting in his chest — he drew back and kicked the door again, harder, stab of pain flashing up his leg like lightning. It swung open as smooth as silk, mocking him with the silent glide of its hinges.

“Hija de puta, I will make you into firewood one day,” Vasquez snarled at the door, which thankfully did not respond. He would kick it shut to prove a point, but the memory of one of their neighbours — Jack Horne, a huge bear of a man with a lurid burn on his chest — and his polite explanation that he worked nights made him pause; nudge the door shut with a click.

“Chencha?” Vasquez called into the quiet apartment, already knowing what he would find. The TV was on, a low rumble of soft sound as the two detectives broke into a warehouse; Goodnight’s laptop rested on the coffee table, his mug resting next to it; and Vasquez moved around the corner, placing the bag down on the cluttered table with a sigh before his gaze could travel any further.

He paused, boots wavering on the incline between wooden floorboards and the wooden knots of the rug. Vasquez knew what had happened to Goodnight, he’d been living with the man for almost a decade — he had tripped over Goodnight on the first day of school and they’d been together ever since.

“Binder first,” Vasquez sighed, “Then I’ll wake up Bella Durmiente.”

The hoodie was soft, well worn and stretched out over Vasquez’s broader shoulders. It had originally been one of Goodnight’s — a long dead author decorating the front who Vasquez had never and would never read — but like most things now, it was just theirs. Vasquez perched on the edge of the bed, springs creaking beneath his weight, and carefully unrolled the socks he had chosen, bright yellow and orange stripes vibrant despite the gloom outside.

It was an old ritual, one Vasquez had learned and perfected over the years. Boots were unlaced then toed off, falling to the floor with a heavy thunk, and the socks were pulled on, and all the while Vasquez’s eyes were shut tight. He released the breath he had been holding and cracked his knuckles, scooping up his boots by the laces. 

The socks were soft and warm, a flash of pride erupting in Vasquez’s chest like a firework — even if knitting the heels had almost driven him to throw the entire thing out of the window. 

“Goodnight?” Vasquez called again, quickly albeit uselessly checking the empty spare bedroom and the bathroom. He knew exactly where Goodnight was. 

Goodnight lay as still as the grave, the only movement the faint rise and fall of his chest. He resembled a marionette, strings cut and cast aside. It was uncanny to see him so still, the frown lines on his forehead wiped away. There were faint wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, grey streaking through his hair, light reflecting off the dull gleam of his single golden tooth. 

Vasquez glanced around the floor, the fluffy rug showing its age before he spotted it, half hidden beneath the sofa.

The dropped spoon had missed the tray, and Goodnight’s alarm lay buzzing faintly next to it, fallen from his lap. Vasquez scooped up all three, crouching down next to Goodnight’s head. At times he felt guilty, waking Goodnight up like this; but the memory of the long walk up four flights of stairs soon cured him of his misapprehension.

Metal crashed onto metal like holy thunder, masking Goodnight’s startled yelp as he sat bolt upright, almost toppling onto Vasquez in his haste. 

“Hola querido,” Vasquez said brightly, kissing Goodnight on the cheek before he could react, beard scratching at his lips. “It’s your turn to put away the groceries.”

Day bled into night, curtains were drawn and lights were turned on. Vasquez knew he was fidgeting, knee bouncing fast enough to vibrate the table but he couldn’t stop. There was a fire in his veins that was threatening to consume him.

“Cher,” Goodnight began, swiping his fingers over the computer keyboard and destroying the hopes and dreams of another wannabe interviewer wanting to profit off of his family name, “Care for a dance?”

“Don’t have to,” Vasquez said, as he always did — offering Goodnight an out he would never take.

“But I want to.”

Goodnight’s knees cracked as he stood, and cracked again as he moved Vasquez’s boots out of the way — that hateful red bleeding up the previously brown leather. A quick glance at his feet confirmed his suspicions — as if he couldn’t already tell from the rolling drum beat inside his head, the restless electricity in his veins — the stripes were slowly shifting into that vibrant red that tainted everything eventually. 

“Fine bicho raro,” Vasquez sighed, a show of unwillingness even as he placed his hands into Goodnight’s and let the other man pull him up into an embrace. They were close enough in height that they slipped together easily, familiar and comforting—

And then Goodnight moved, a single step, drawing Vasquez with him and he was gone, mind lost in the steps of the dance, driving the lightning from his veins.

It was dark when Vasquez regained control of himself. His limbs felt like lead, weighing him down onto the bed. Dimly he realised he was lying on top of Goodnight, feeling the faint rise and fall of the other man’s chest beneath him.

“You awake?” Vasquez whispered into the silence, exhaustion keeping him from moving and checking if Goodnight’s sleep was natural, or a magical one, part of the curse he had inherited from his mother.

“Funny isn’t it?” Goodnight’s voice was pensive, verging in maudlin. “My mother is Sleeping Beauty, I have inherited that delightful gift of inconvenient unconsciousness, and I suffer from insomnia.”

“How long did it take this time?” Vasquez sighed, wiggling his toes into the warm spot on the inside of Goodnight’s ankles.

“A few hours. I had to leave you to dance to cook, but there’s leftovers for tomorrow.”

“I ate?”

“You did. Managed to carry you into the bath as well,” Goodnight laughed quietly, rubbing circles onto Vasquez’s back, forcing soft sighs out of the other man.

“I really liked those boots,” Vasquez sighed. While Goodnight’s Curse was inherited, Vasquez chose this, sacrificed himself to occasional piques of dancing, losing control until the urge left him, controlled by ensuring none of his shoes completed the final transformation to the red leather that covered his skin.

“You can steal mine again,” Goodnight offered, “Now go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep, chencha,” Vasquez muttered as a token protest, as he felt himself slowly drift off once more, Goodnight kissing the top of his head softly.

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com) Requests are always welcome!  
> [Trope mash up list!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com/post/615200731645050880/fanfiction-trope-mash-up)  
> I had a lot of fun writing this one! For Goodnight I used Sleeping Beauty and for Vasquez, I used The Red Shoes fairy tale <3


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